


Scarecrows

by Agent_Zap



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Ass Play, Dirty Talk, Episode: s04e01 Thirty Days Without an Accident, Established Relationship, I is Foreshadowing, Kink Meme, Light Spanking, M/M, Rimming, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-02-04 22:27:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1795411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_Zap/pseuds/Agent_Zap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Original prompt:<br/>"Daryl/Rick selfconscious!rick<br/>Rick is self conscious after the "maybe a bigger ass" comment from Herschel. He confides Daryl, who then tries to somehow prove that his ass is perfect as it is"</p><p> <br/>Carol stopped searching for a moment, a pipe wrench gripped firmly in her hand, and gave him a quick once-over. “Mm. Too bad the outbreak didn’t happen in the eighties. You could have managed with high-waisted jeans.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scarecrows

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing here, and I'm not making money from it.
> 
> Beta done by Emmessann, who saved me from several disasters. Thank you!

“Overalls, Rick? Seriously?” Maggie looked straight at him, her distaste badly concealed. He shuffled his feet a bit and felt a pang of longing for his gun-belt as he replied: “It was your Dad’s idea.”

Her expression softened slightly, before she turned her head towards the wood-line and brought the binoculars up to her eyes. She swept the line slowly. “I suppose it would make sense, with the kind of work you mostly do these days.”

There was only the sound of birds chirping and the light breeze in the tower. And the walkers, from below.

“It’s just that it reminds me of Otis. And Shane.” She put the binoculars down and sent him a crooked smile. “But you wouldn’t look anything like either of them, anyway. You’d be more like a scarecrow without the stuffing.”

“Hm.”

“Ask Carol. I don’t know if we have any.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll do that.” He turned around and started walking down the stairs, the back of his neck prickling. He resisted the urge to turn around and check where her gaze was aimed.

* * *

The sweat stung his eyes as he struggled to break up the hard earth into workable soil. He thought he had a good rhythm going – lift the spade high by the handle, then lever it into the ground to break through the top layer. Step on the blade and push himself up off the ground before dropping down on it, so he could utilize the maximum of mass and gravity to force it deeper. He had to be careful when tipping the spade, and patiently wiggle the dirt loose. He’d already broken two shafts from impatience. Materials for replacement were fairly easy to come by, but fixing it was time and work that could have been spent on something else.

The exertion, and the vibrations from the wood, resonated through his body. Sometimes it felt like it was the earth shaking, and not him. He was used to hard work by now, and he was physically stronger than he’d ever been. Still, he didn’t have much bulk to show for it, and the sinewy muscles in his back were burning.

He paused and leaned on the tool as Daryl drove back into the camp, jumped out of the truck and hauled a deer out of the bed up onto his shoulders. He started walking towards the buildings, easily carrying the large animal, arms bulging. It was a welcome sight to most. Everybody needed hope, and Daryl couldn’t have looked more heroic if he’d been wearing a helmet with horns on it. A pig-farming scarecrow wasn’t that impressive on a day-to-day scale.

Rick kept staring through the hot, dancing dust clouds, lost in his contemplations, until Daryl looked in his direction and squinted against the sun. He nodded his head and waggled the fingers on one occupied hand in greeting. Rick straightened up and glanced two fingers off his greasy temple in return. He kept looking until Daryl reached the kitchen area and dropped their dinner on the plank table with an echoing whump. With a sigh, he grabbed the handle and lifted the spade into the air once more.

* * *

“Carol, do you know if we have any overalls anywhere?”

“Why would I know? I haven’t seen any. Why?” She was preoccupied, metal clanging as she dug through a tool-box on the presently clean and empty kitchen table.

“Well, it was just, uh…” Rick looked down and scratched his head.

“Oh… If wearing a belt is getting uncomfortable, yeah, I guess you do need something else to keep your pants from falling off.”

Rick looked up, hand coming to rest behind his neck. “… Really? That’s what comes to mind?”

Carol stopped searching for a moment, a pipe wrench gripped firmly in her hand, and gave him a quick once-over. “Mm. Too bad the outbreak didn’t happen in the eighties. You could have managed with high-waisted jeans.” She made a lop-sided grimace. “Or not. Maybe suspenders? Ask Michonne to look around next time she goes out.”

She returned to her box. Rick stood there, quietly, and tried to remember himself as a scrawny teenager; wide, sharp-edged hip-bones in snow-washed denim with fake leather patches. He shook his head, turned around and walked away.

* * *

He was on his way to the dinner pavilion when he caught sight of Daryl leaving, licking grease off of his fingers. Damn. Daryl’s skills at keeping the camp’s basic needs met were invaluable, but sometimes Rick just didn’t want to know about his concept of proper human nutrition – and hygiene – in any details. It was hard to argue against it, though, with Daryl’s health and brand of physique as endorsements.

He veered around the tables, pretending he’d never been aiming for them. He was still hungry, but his appetite was gone.

* * *

“Michonne.”

“Rick. Quit staring at my ass.”

“… But…”

“Stop it. Now.”

“Okay. Okay, sorry. Sorry, Michonne.”

* * *

“Ow.”

Daryl looked up at him. It was a nice and nearly cool evening, and they’d been quietly going through the weapons crate together, cleaning and oiling everything. Rick shifted in his seat; his ass-bones were sore. He rarely sat down for this long anymore.

“Here.” Daryl put down the rifle, wrestled off his stained old leather vest and handed it to Rick. “Sit on that.” Rick reached out carefully, keeping his eyes on the vest and not on Daryl’s upper body that was a very lightly clad blur in the corner of his field of vision. The vest was warm to the touch. And surprisingly soft, once he covered the bench seat with it and eased back down.

“Thanks.” The warmth seemed to seep from the vest and spread through him, soothing and relaxing.

Daryl shrugged as he aimed the weapon down his side and peered into the chamber. “You’re welcome.”

* * *

“Mister Grimes?”

Rick looked up from the pigs in the sty, at the small, curly-haired boy. He hadn’t even noticed him, coming through the tall grass across the yard.

“Hey there, Luke.”

“Lizzie says we’ll eat the pigs for Christmas.” He looked up at Rick with doubt in his eyes.

Rick smiled and nodded, experimentally chewing on the straw he’d picked a moment before. The taste was acrid. He hadn’t thought of Christmas, but it was true. They could have pork roast. Hell, they could have Christmas. He felt like a regular Santa. “That’s right. I think the pigs will be big enough just around then.”

Luke stepped up to the fence and looked at the pigs through the slats, frowning. “What’s Christmas like?”

Rick blinked, as the piglets squealed and the lowering sun reflected in the windows of the guard tower. Just how old could the boy have been when the outbreak happened? “Christmas…” Peals of laughter rang out from somewhere up by the prison. The chain-link fence was rattling. “Do you remember anything about Christmas?”

The boy was pressed up against the fence next to his leg. “I remember… Santa came to our house. He had a big beard and laughed really loud, and he was HUGE… My mom wanted me to sit with him, but I knew he was going to try to sit on me and squeeze me flat. It was like… He looked like a person, but he wasn’t really. Like the walkers. They look like people, but they just want to eat you.” He looked up at Rick with serious eyes. “Do we have to have Christmas?”

Rick remembered shopping malls and jingle bells, thousands of watts blown on decorations and forced politeness to the in-laws. He also remembered the time Lori had had to pick up Carl from a birthday party, hiding in the bathroom with wet pants because there’d been a damn clown for entertainment. “No, Luke, not if you don’t want to. We can have a party with roast pork and no Santa. But Christmas isn’t all bad. I think some of the others might like to do some fun Christmas things.”

The boy sighed deeply. “Are you sure?” His voice sank to a whisper; “I was afraid of Hershel at first, he looks just like him. I know he’s not, but he's still scary.”

Rick reached down and tousled the boy’s hair, “Don’t you worry, Hershel isn’t Santa. He’s one of us.”

“I know. But he can fall because of his leg and land on me, like Santa.”

He turned to Rick and flung his arms around his hips, holding tight. “I’m glad you’re not as big, Mister Grimes. I’m not afraid of you.”

* * *

The walls were glowing terra cotta in the light of the setting sun, as Rick slunk around the buildings and down the passage. He could feel sweat dripping from his nose, and the dust clung everywhere. It would be even hotter inside the bus.

But the doors were open, and though the stink of cooking plastic from the upholstery hit him as he climbed the steps, the air was breathable. For a moment, he thought he’d got there first, despite the open doors. Then he noticed the rasping sound of snoring and the shadow in the back seat between the rows; the gritty blend of dirt and darkness. He started working his way down the aisle, skewed boot heels thumping the floor mats.

Rick wouldn’t have tried surprising anybody snoring loudly, no matter how familiar. He was relieved when Daryl stretched out and blinked at him through slitted lids as he came up between the last seats. Daryl reached out sleepily and twisted the front of Rick’s shirt between his fingers for a possessive tug. “You took your time.”

Rick knelt down and slipped his hands up under Daryl’s vest as he leaned in, closing his eyes and drawing a deep breath as their foreheads touched. Daryl slung one arm around his neck and made an encouraging rumble. His aura of gutted game and acerbic sweat blended with Rick’s own of manure; overpowering the synthetic odor from the seats. Usually, these smells were comforting and distracting, like the feeling of hard muscles under his palms was, and the strong arm firmly trapping his head. He groaned as he felt Daryl’s other hand reach down to the front of his pants and swiftly deal with belt buckle, button and zipper. But tonight, for some reason, he was feeling preoccupied and almost shy. He twisted out of Daryl’s hooked arm and fell back against the side of the nearest seat, wincing as his tailbone knocked against the floor, then dry-washed his hot, sticky face before combing his tangled hair back with his fingers.

“What’s got you so skittish all of a sudden?”

Rick looked up at Daryl, who was holding his hands up, palms out, in a hands-off gesture, while tilting his head in an inquiring way. Rick could see the grime caked by the lines around his eyes. He could also see the bulge in his pants. He really, really wanted to get his mouth on that. So what was the problem?

“What do you think about Michonne?” Rick heard himself ask. Daryl looked puzzled, but lowered his hands.

“She’s all right, I guess? I thought that was settled. She’s proven herself, hasn’t she? She’s a loner, doesn’t talk much. I ain’t holding that against her.”

“I was thinking more… The way she looks?”

“I don’t know… A little scary?”

“But… What about her… “ Rick did some weirdly uncoordinated gestures that maybe bore a resemblance to an hour-glass. “Do you like her ass?”

“Her ass? Sure, I suppose she’s got a fine ass – for a – a female person.”

“So… If she was a guy… “

“What kinda question is that? The only ass I want to think about right now is yours. Shut up and get over here already.”

Oh well. This horse might be a little rough-toothed, but Rick wasn’t going to complain. He was just getting back up on his knees to reach for Daryl’s belt, when Daryl batted his hands away. “Uh-uh. I think you need to get your ass up here.” He swung his legs down, pushed himself up on his feet by leaning on Rick’s shoulder, and swung around so he was standing behind him, putting his hands on Rick’s upper back and pressing him down against the cracked back seat. “There. That’s better.” He moved his hands to Rick’s hips and hefted him backwards – Rick felt his ass tilting up, and his kneecaps leave the floor for a split second as Daryl lifted him with ease and kicked his legs apart as he dropped him back down. Rick felt a little dizzy. Usually Daryl just told him what he wanted, and by now, most of the time, he already knew pretty well. He knew how to touch Daryl, or not to touch. He wasn’t altogether sure what was expected of him right now, just kneeling here, but the confident handling Daryl was delivering let him ignore the impulse to fidget or resist, and when he shivered he wasn’t sure whether it was from the thrill or a reverse reaction to the heat. The skin of his cheek felt glued to the plastic while his sweaty hands grappled for hold.

Daryl kept his hands on him, slowly palming his ass as he knelt down behind him. Then he caught the thighs of Rick’s pants and tucked them down, fast enough that his dick slid free without getting caught against the zipper as it bobbed out. He could feel goose bumps crawl across the top of his buttocks in response to the exposure. As Daryl groped him and squeezed his ass cheeks hard, he let out a low moan. 

He was unprepared when Daryl suddenly lifted one hand and smacked him hard. His neck muscles tensed as he reared up in reflex, but Daryl’s hand rested against the quickly heating skin as if savouring it, calloused palm then rubbing against him until he couldn’t tell exactly where one ended and the other began. It was a strange and consuming feeling. He felt a rush of expectation when Daryl’s hands left him again, and he sensed the muscles in his backside jumping, anticipating the next, stinging slap. He wasn’t disappointed. 

“Aw, man. You should see yourself. That tight little butt, all mine.” Rick felt Daryl press his thumbs against the prints that must be outlined by now, if the hot, tingling sensation was anything to go by. His nose was buried in the crook of his own elbow, and he was short of breath. He felt weird and without experience being this passive, sort of useless and fighting an expectation for the other shoe to drop from Daryl’s attention to his bony ass, and yet he knew that he really didn’t want to be anywhere else. 

Then Daryl pinched the soft, thin skin in the crease under his buttocks, hard enough to monopolise his attention, and leaned down to scratch his stubbly jaw against Rick’s flushed skin. “Oh yeah, that’s good, I want more of that.” He gave the sore wrinkles another tweak, then pushed his hands soothingly along the crease, continuing down to his pants and working them further down. His face was still pressed against Rick. “Come on. Get ‘em off.” Rick really wanted to help the process, but Daryl’s nose was prodding his sweaty ass, the way his dick kept poking against the seat was distracting, and his legs felt weak and not his own. Daryl chuckled. “All right, --- Here we go.” He leaned in to fold one arm around Rick’s waist and lifted him, while pulling the pants down below his knees with his other hand. Rick’s kneecaps hit the floor once more, and he was grateful that his glowing face was hidden as Daryl worked off his festering old boots, his pants next, and then pushed his legs wide apart. The moist hair between his legs tickled as it was freed and started curling up and away from his skin.

“Ah. That’s it.” Daryl reached between Rick’s legs and lifted his balls carefully, running his fingers through the hair and and jiggling them gently, as if measuring their weight. Rick blew air out through his nose as he felt them draw up. Then the touching stopped, and for a moment, everything was quiet, and he tried to relax, until he became aware of the deliberate sound of sniffing. He stiffened, halting his breath, opening his eyes for complete attention, even if all he could see was the stained seat he was leaning against. There it was. A deep, nasal breath. And again. “Mmmm.” Rick didn’t know if he wanted to turn around and look, or pretend he hadn’t noticed. In his mind he saw Daryl smelling his own fingers, wet with Rick’s ripe ball sweat. “Mm, that’s good.” The next sound was a loud slurping, and he couldn’t keep the image of Daryl licking his greasy fingers earlier from jumping into his head. He groaned and turned his face down into the seat. As if Daryl needed any confirmation that he knew exactly what he was doing. Claiming the most private parts of Rick for his own.

The sucking and rumbling finally ended in a loud smack, followed by the sound of a generous discharge of saliva. He was not surprised when he felt a hand wrap itself down his ass-crack, carefully spreading spit all the way. As fingertips ran small circles around his ass-hole, he felt soft lips press against the spots on his ass that were still burning slightly, slowly shifting around, then a tongue; warm and wet, licking him, leaving moist trails to cool quickly in the hot, dry evening air.

He gave up trying to keep track of Daryl’s fingers and mouth separately, and simply let it wash over him, just like giving or taking and staying or walking wasn’t all that opposite anymore. Daryl kissed and licked his way all over his ass, still letting his fingertips walk lightly over his hole, but never pushing in. Rick wondered if he should be begging for more, but it didn’t seem like his place to do so, and he was choosing to have faith that Daryl was doing precisely what he wanted to, and not pretending, whether to placate Rick or make fun of him. His dick was heavy, hanging free, and Daryl’s cheek was pressed against his ass-cheek and now his tongue was working itself in between his fingers, it was writhing like mad, the tip actually sneaking inside him, running around the rim and now, surely he was adding fingers too, stretching him, then pulling his fingers back again to cover the area entirely with his mouth… 

Rick felt slightly drunk and unsteady, and was glad he was safely on his knees. Daryl was making appreciative noises, using his hands to push him open, and the sensation of the tip of his tongue as it shot shallowly in and out of Rick’s ass was rather overwhelming for such a small thing; unreasonably staggering. From prodding him open with the pointed, slick nub of his tongue-tip, Daryl switched to swiping at him with broad, soft strokes, tensing up across the center to push spit inside him with every passing. Rick tried to breathe deeply and just open up and follow along. His throat was starting to feel gummy and dry from gasping in the heat, and the seat he was leaning on was now completely slippery with his sweat.

When finally his ass was so wet and sensitized he could feel the spit dripping out of him if he didn’t hold back, Daryl started moving up again, kissing and licking his way to the small of his back, then leaning up and against him. He ran one hand up his back, and over his head, burying his fingers in his soaked hair, roughly combing it away from his face and turning his head so his right cheek was pressed against the seat. He wrapped his hair tight around his fingers, and held his head down by that while cradling it. Rick stayed very still, eyes closed. He knew his face was being watched. He wasn’t sure what Daryl was looking for, but there was nothing he could do about it. Whatever he was at this point, it was all showing. Then Daryl reached down with his other hand and pushed two fingers right into his ass, and he couldn’t help but grunt, extending his back in a jerk, curving out to meet the unrefined penetration. Daryl twisted his hand swiftly so it was palm down, and tapped a fast rhythm against his prostate. Screw it. Rick groaned aloud, and pushed back against those fingers as hard as he could. “Yeah, that’s right.” Daryl’s voice was husky, pleasure evident with every syllable. “I want to see you fuck yourself on my fingers, just work a little harder and show me how much you want it, you’re so fuckin’ adorable, trying so hard to be good.” Then he strummed his fingers inside Rick again.

Rick bucked, gasping and leaning his head back into Daryl’s hand, while writhing and wriggling and reaching for those fingers to make contact with that special spot again, but Daryl tilted his fingers up and away and let him struggle for it. He was aware what he must look like, ass as high as he could go, working it in circles to try and reach that right angle, but he didn’t care, all he wanted was those fingers, and to keep Daryl talking in that voice. Daryl kept alternating between pushing softly down inside, and curling his fingers up to play a fast rat-a-tat, making Rick hiss and shiver, then just as it would almost become too much, he’d withdraw again. Above it all, his voice kept flowing, praising Rick; praising his ass, which was essentially all he consisted of right now.

It was an exhausting exercise. His knees were sore, his throat was dry and his thighs were burning. And that voice could not be tuned out. He squeezed his watering eyes tight in effort. “Grab your dick.” Daryl’s order was a welcome redirecting. He reached a shaky hand down to his crotch and caught an awkward hold on his hard shaft, avoiding the smarting, eager head. “Don’t touch yourself. Just make sure you don’t come yet.” Rick shuddered and clenched his teeth, then slowly slid his hand all the way down to the root, and put a firm pressure on. “Yeah, that’s good.” Then Daryl let go of his hair, sat back and let his free hand run gently across Rick’s tired and sweaty back-side, while slowly flexing the fingers of the other and starting to run smooth, firm circles around the hard, sensitive gland he had been teasing. Rick moaned and squeezed his dick so hard he was sure he was going to have bruises, as the waves and sparks seemed to radiate out from Daryl’s fingertips, making everything in him go soft like jelly, with a few stubborn exceptions. Keeping his grip tight was enough of an effort, and the urge to just let go seemed impossible to stave off. The feeling of his own fingernails digging harshly into the skin covering the thick base of his dick was a vague intrusion on the edge of his consciousness, while the steady caress from within was unrelenting in its demand of every part of him, his whole body strung along by the playful agility of Daryl’s fingers.

He could feel his body beginning to act against his will – he desperately kept his grip on his dick, but instead of grinding back against Daryl, he could feel himself curling up and pulling away from the stimulation that was turning into overload without release. Just when he thought he couldn’t hold back any longer and heard raw sounds coming from his own throat, a strong hand hit his buttocks again, and again, hard as wood, pounding his muscles, and at the same time jolting his whole body around the fingers firmly planted in his ass. He knew he was bellowing and finally letting go of his dick to brace himself against the seat, when Daryl pressed up against him, trapping the heat of his taut, swelling flesh and with steady force dug his hard dick into him, on top of his fingers. He vaguely wondered when Daryl had pulled down his own pants. He hadn’t even noticed. He felt a hand returning to gently stroking his hair. He felt fingers of another hand, plus a scorching, unyielding erection drilling into him from behind. He was strung out between the two, shaking loose and disintegrating, and wasn’t that some kind of conciliation.

He felt himself spilling uncontrollably into the air and all over the floor, contracting hard around Daryl as he put his lips to Rick’s ear and whispered all that stuff that was only said on the bus, and shot across his own fingers still buried in Rick.

They were both sticky and thirsty, curled up around each other on the floor, catching their breath. Daryl lifted his hand up in front of Rick and shook it as if to cool it off. “Ow.” Rick grabbed it and guided it down to his own, burning, butt. “Hah.” “Aw, man.” Daryl poked delicately at the welts. “You know… “ His hand came to a comfortable rest. “Michonne’s not the only one who’s changed here. Everybody’s settled in. People like it here.” Rick stared into the air. “Yeah. I suppose.” Daryl gave his ass a friendly pat. “Thanks to you, man.” The sun had set some time ago, and it was getting dark quickly. Daryl rolled over and got up, hiking up his pants. “Better head back.” “Yeah.” Rick climbed to his feet gingerly, cataloguing all the sore spots he’d earned. “Yeah, let’s get out of here before all the light’s gone.”


End file.
